


Arabesque En Pointe

by A_Study_In_Johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, It's For a Case, M/M, Possessive John, Sherlock Loves Ballet, They love each other, Top John, Virgin Sherlock, it's implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 01:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10322939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Study_In_Johnlock/pseuds/A_Study_In_Johnlock
Summary: John comes home after work  and finds Sherlock in a very interesting position





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the lot of you that really enjoyed my first fic, here's a second. Also, to ThereBeDragons, thank you so much for the advice.

  
  


John shut the door behind him and frowned at the sound of a violin being played slowly, to the point of dragging. The song was solemn, intense, and John couldn’t help but investigate. Climbing the stairs to 221B, John’s jaw dropped as he watched his flatmate who was currently dancing ballet. Sherlock’s right leg was drawn out at a complete ninety degree angle as he balanced on the tip of his left foot. 

_ Jesus,  _ John thought, afraid to make a sound. Only Sherlock Holmes could manage to leave him breathless.

Sherlock’s long, lean body gave into slow sinuous movements as his leg relaxed, giving him an ethereal look. John had to blink twice to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.  He felt his heart skip a beat as Sherlock noticed his presence. Knowing the genius, he’d probably deduced the precise moment when John would come home.

“Arabesque en pointe,” Sherlock spoke in deep baritone, complimenting the music in the background. 

“For a case?” John inquired, finally removing his coat to give himself something to do other than stare slack jawed at the man he’d been in love with now for seven years.

“Of course,” Sherlock stated simply.

“Anything else I need to add to the list?” John asked as he settled in his chair, giving himself a perfect view of Sherlock who, John could now see, was covered in a light sheen of sweat. 

Sherlock frowned. “What list?”

“Your list of skills–you know, deductions, chemistry, philosophy, violin, sensational literature, and your good, practical knowledge of British law.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened as if in consideration. “Well, Mycroft is the British government; I’d be an idiot if I didn’t amount how many things I could get away with under their noses.”

John arched an eyebrow as Sherlock began to pirouette. He didn’t think he’d seen anything so glorious, but–then again–this was  _ Sherlock.  _ For John, there was no one else, but he would never do anything to jeopardize their friendship, not after they’d worked so hard to get to a state of normalcy after... _ Mary.  _ John shuddered to think about Sherlock bleeding out in his suddenly incapable hands. He’d saved so many lives in Afghanistan–hell, he’d saved so many lives on cases with Sherlock, but he couldn’t help the memories that’d stricken him of Sherlock on the roof of St. Barts, only being able to coherently think:  _ God, I can’t lose him again. I can’t. Lose. Him. Again.  _

“Again?”

Sherlock’s voice pulled John from his reverie and John found himself looking at Sherlock with widened eyes. He’d stopped dancing. John wasn’t sure if he’d spoken out loud and he felt his heartbeat speed up.

Licking his lips, he went for impassive, “What?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in  _ that  _ way and John knew he was exposed. 

“Don’t do that.” John pointed an accusatory finger.

“What?” Sherlock frowned again.

“The look.”

“What  _ look _ ?”

“ _ Sherlock.”  _ it was weak warning, but Sherlock shut his mouth.

“Again?” Sherlock repeated.

John took a beat. “Again what?”

“Did you want to see it again? The dance, I mean?”

John’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” he gave Sherlock a calm smile.

Sherlock turned to start the music again before he stopped, his back to John. “Something’s not right.” John could practically see the detective’s lips pressed together in frustration. 

“What is it?” John inquired.

“The dancer,” Sherlock turned on his heel to face John. “His back was to the killer.”

“And how do you suppose that?”

“He got the lead in an upcoming ballet–there was a specific move he was practicing that very day– _ arabesque en pointe _ –a  _ required  _ move; it was vital that he perfect this. As he didn’t gain the opportunity it’s likely someone made sure he wouldn’t, no matter the consequences.”

It was slowly clicking together for John, but Sherlock continued.

“Who studies the lead–knows every move from start to finish?” there was an excited glint in Sherlock’s eyes that John knew all too well: The game was on.

“The understudy,” John looked at Sherlock with widened eyes who was gazing back at him with what could only be called a very pleased expression. 

“You’re getting quicker, John.” Sherlock noted as he began to change his shoes.

John rushed to grab his jacket. Sherlock pulled out his phone and began texting who John could only assume to be Lestrade.

Sherlock swiftly pulled on his Belstaff, his eyes still focused on the screen. “Come along, John,” and they were out the door, John following closely beside Sherlock.

 

***

 

When the pair got back to Baker Street, the sun was setting and the streets were filled with people filing by. Their taxi pulled up alongside the curb and John tossed a couple notes towards the driver before he and Sherlock filed out.

The two climbed up the stairs to their flat and John found himself collapsing in his chair after hanging up his coat. He thought he’d be used to the post-case adrenaline by now, but he proved himself wrong with each solved case.

Sherlock sat across from him, his post-case smirk apparent on his features.

“Proud?” John inquired.

“I like a good case, John.” was all he said.

Silence followed. Until John broke it with a question he found he desperately needed an answer to.

“How long have you been dancing?”

“Since childhood,” he waved it off as he wont to do.

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment who was avoiding his gaze. John came to a slow realization. “You love it.”

Sherlock’s head snapped over to look at John with almost accusatory eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but–alarmingly–the genius was at a loss for words. Of course, this was Sherlock at subject so unsurprisingly, he spoke anyway. “Love what?”

His tone was so quiet, so delicate, it took John by surprise and he was reminded of that day on the staircase, after Sherlock had come back from his two year hiatus.

_ You'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it. _

_ Love what? _

_ Being Sherlock Holmes. _

_ I don't even know what that's supposed to mean. _

John couldn’t admit, that day, he so desperately wanted to say  _ me,  _ but that twisting doubt in his gut stopped him. Just like it stopped him now.

John cleared his throat. “Ballet.”

Sherlock threw him a look that John could have sworn was wistful, but it was gone before he could fully note it. “Well, aren’t we the clever one today, doctor.” Sherlock murmured. He pulled himself out of his chair and John couldn’t help but feel as if he was screwing up.

Flashes of St. Barts flooded John’s brain again as well as Mary’s bullet infiltrating Sherlock’s heart and John closed his eyes against the unwanted images. He didn’t want to lose Sherlock again, but he didn’t want to live the rest of his life being friends with Sherlock without knowing  _ what if _ ? For once, John forced himself to ignore the voice that was telling John that Sherlock was married to his work, and spoke anyway.

“Sherlock…” John trailed off.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock had almost been halfway to his room.

“You’d have to be an idiot not to see it,” John’s voice trembled as realization flashed over Sherlock’s face. “You love it.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together, unsure. “Love what?”

“ _ Me,”  _ John breathed.

There was a determined look in Sherlock’s impossibly green-grey eyes. John watched as Sherlock slowly crossed the room back over to him as if trying to make sure John was real–as if the air between them was going to disappear. But it was too late–far too late. The words were already out and between them. They would either bring them closer together or create a rift between their friendship forever. 

Suddenly Sherlock was kneeling at John’s chair, his eyes revealing everything he never said.

Then, his lips moved. “I knew you were getting quicker.”

The next thing John knew, his lips were on Sherlock’s. It happened as if in slow motion. Sherlock was rising on his knees and John was leaning down to meet him. When their lips touched, John felt as if he were drowning in all of the unspoken words and long gazes and Sherlock’s lips were his oxygen. Sherlock’s lips were as soft as John had always imagine in the recesses of his mind, in the dark confines of his room when he was alone to his own devices.

Sherlock’s lips were persistent against John’s as if he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life. His hands began to claw at John’s shirt and John, unable to take the distance any longer, pulled Sherlock into his lap. Sherlock straddled John’s thighs until they were pressed against each other, no barriers. John could feel the evidence of Sherlock’s arousal against his own, and suddenly John was pulling away. Sherlock whined as they parted.

“How long?” John demanded softly, his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s.

“The first night at Angelo’s.”

John laughed bitterly. “God, Sherlock…so much wasted time.” he gazed into Sherlock’s eyes. “I love you.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed. He slowly unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt before pressing John’s hand to his chest. “My conductor of light. My heart.” his eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at John’s hand. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you.” their eyes met. “You must know that.”

John nodded vigourously. “I know, Sherlock.” he kissed Sherlock slowly, letting their lips slowly drag against each other until they were out of breath. “I know.” John could feel Sherlock’s heart thrumming under his palm, feel the warmth of his skin, before he finished unbuttoning the rest of Sherlock’s shirt. John ran his hands along the expanse of Sherlock’s skin, gently brushing his thumbnail over Sherlock’s nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from those sweet cupid bow lips.

“Bed,” Sherlock demanded. The last thing he wanted to do was pull away from John, but he was desperate for more room. Taking John’s hand into his own, Sherlock walked down the hall towards what Sherlock hoped would now become  _ their  _ bedroom. 

Immediately, John took control, angling Sherlock towards the bed. Sherlock freely fell back onto the mattress, pupils blown, lips already swollen from their kissing.

“God, how are you so beautiful?” John breathed before hovering over Sherlock to kiss him once again. When Sherlock kissed John, it was identical to his first attempt at cocaine. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through him, his hands shaking, yet his mind so clear. Everywhere John touched, he could  _ feel  _ in ways he could not yet explain. It wasn’t until John’s fingers found Sherlock’s curls that Sherlock finally released a surprised whimper, his erection swelling even further. 

John felt him against his thigh and pulled back to look at Sherlock. “Like that?”

Wordlessly, Sherlock nodded, pulling John back in to kiss him. He was high off of John and he didn’t think there was any possible way that he could ever stop. The thought should have terrified him, but when it came to John, he would happily burn alive.

John finally gave in and rested his thighs in between Sherlock’s. There was no space between their bodies. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed as they began to rut like teenagers, their pants filling the room. 

“Please,” Sherlock murmured when he could no longer take it. “John, I–I need–”

“Okay,” John reassured him in a whisper. “I’ve got you.” he pulled back to take them out of the rest of their clothes. John’s shirt went first, followed by Sherlock’s trousers, then his own until–finally–their pants were removed and there were no barriers left. Nothing else holding them back.

Sherlock’s eyes raked down John’s body, leaving no stone untouched. He committed every freckle, every scar, every line to his memory. Of course, as he’d deduced, John was above average and Sherlock imagined the ways in which he could take John’s cock over every surface in the house. John felt as if Sherlock couldn’t real: the long expanse of pale skin, the brown freckles standing out making him all the more beautiful. His eyes fell to Sherlock’s cock: long, slender, and the same colour of his swollen lips.

Something, then, took over John and there was no more holding back. John started at Sherlock’s lips, deepening their kiss, feeling Sherlock’s tongue against his own. Sherlock moaned into his mouth and John couldn’t wait to taste all of the other sounds he could elicit from Sherlock. His lips began to travel downwards, along Sherlock’s jaw, to his neck where he sucked a bruise into pale skin. 

“Never pegged you for ownership, John,” Sherlock breathed shakily as John nipped at his collarbone.

John gazed back at Sherlock with a challenging smirk. “Do you not want to be owned?”

Sherlock’s eyes visibly widened a fraction. “By you. Only you. Please.”

John continued his journey to Sherlock’s nipples, loving their colour against his skin. John wanted to count all the ways Sherlock was perfect as he gently ran his tongue around the rosy bud, bringing it to attention. Sherlock was gazing down at him with hazy eyes and, without breaking his gaze, John took Sherlock’s nipple between his index finger and thumb, gently rolling. Sherlock groaned underneath him, his hips bucking upwards.

“ _ John, _ ” Sherlock plead as John increased the pressure. “John,  _ please. _ ”

John gave equal attention to Sherlock’s other nipple, gently pulling with his teeth–eliciting a sharp gasp from Sherlock who’s eyes had closed due to oversensitivity. John granted him mercy and kissed down between Sherlock’s ribs, his hands drifting down Sherlock’s sides. When his hands rested on those sharp hipbones, John’s eyes met Sherlock.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned. “ _ You.  _ I thought that was  _ fairly _ –”

John cut him off. “No, you’re being thick. What do you  _ want _ ? I’m all yours, now and forever, but what do you want tonight?”

Sherlock released a breath in realization. “ _ You,  _ inside of me.”

John nodded slowly. “Lube?”

Sherlock barely tilted his head towards the drawer to his nightstand. John grabbed the tube and pulled himself onto his knees. Sherlock pulled his legs up, placing his feet flat down on the bed.

John couldn’t help running his hands along Sherlock’s skin, from his thighs down to the tops of his feet. 

Opening the lube, John squeezed some onto his fingers, letting the liquid warm before his fingers down Sherlock’s hole, gently running his finger along the puckered skin until Sherlock relaxed to his touch. 

“Alright?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, feeling entirely exposed to John. Slowly, he felt the first digit slide smoothly inside of him. John stretched him, closely watching Sherlock’s reactions before adding a second. He spread them far apart, filling Sherlock–purposely avoiding his prostate. Sherlock was already a groaning mess when he could finally take three fingers and his cock was leaking against his belly.

John’s cock gave an empathetic twitch and it was then John realized how hard he was. But, before he did anything, he had to make sure Sherlock was more than prepared for him. The sounds that Sherlock was making led John to believe that Sherlock wouldn’t be making it long through this.

When Sherlock’s hole was wide and fluttering, waiting for something to fill it, John finally coated his cock with lube.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted open to meet John’s dark blue eyes, so many depths hidden away, only for Sherlock to see. John settled in between Sherlock’s thighs and slowly pressed in. He’d just gotten the head in when John realized he also wouldn’t last long.

He slowly pushed forward, then pulled back–to prepare Sherlock for the sensation. When he pushed forward again, he slid further in. Then out again. Sherlock groaned against him in frustration.

“I’m not going to  _ break, _ ” Sherlock told him.

“I know,” John replied, pushing into Sherlock a little further this time. “As long as I can help it.”

“I said I wanted  _ you.  _ To be owned and possessed by only you. You’ve more than prepared me.”

John knew Sherlock was right; he was never wrong. So, once more, John pulled back out as far to his head and swiftly pushed forward, filling Sherlock to the hilt. Sherlock released a deep groan that resonated from the back of his throat. It was the sexiest thing John had ever heard in his life and he’d spent seven years listening to Sherlock’s normal speaking voice.

John’s hands wrapped under Sherlock’s thighs and pulled them upwards so that Sherlock would take him deeper and, at this position, John would have full access to Sherlock’s prostate. John didn’t hold back. He began filling Sherlock over and over again, consistently hitting his prostate. The sound of their skin smacking, their pants–it was too much. It was driving John closer to the edge and the last thing he wanted to do was come before Sherlock.

He reached a hand between them and took Sherlock’s weeping cock into his hand and began to stroke the length of him in time with this thrusts. 

A broken moan fell from Sherlock’s lips and he threw his head back, showing John the wonderful expanse of his neck. John took the opportunity to nip and suck at a sensitive spot under his ear. 

“ _ John, harder.  _ P-please.” Sherlocked whined desperately. John’s free hand intertwined with Sherlock’s and John pressed him hard into the pillow, fucking him with everything he had. John’s thumb ran along the underside of Sherlock’s cock as he brushed against his prostate once more and, then, Sherlock was spilling out over John’s hand–Sherlock crying out profanities and John’s name. John attempted to slow down, but Sherlock wasn’t having it, even in his post orgasmic stage.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock whispered, locking John in with his legs “Your turn.”

John groaned against Sherlock’s shoulder and he shuddered as Sherlock’s nails softly raked down his spine. “ _ Sherlock…”  _ John moaned.

“I’m here, John. I’m right here.” John pressed their foreheads together, unable to look away from Sherlock’s intense gaze as he pushed deeper into Sherlock, chasing his own release. Sherlock kissed him again, slowly, and  _ right there,  _ pressed up against his lips, Sherlock whispered in baritone, “Come for me, John.” and that was all it took.

John’s orgasm rippled through him, tearing a cry from his throat as he painted Sherlock’s insides with his release. He rode out the rest of the wave, until their bodies were a shaking, sweaty mess.

When John’s cock softened, he finally pulled out of Sherlock and somewhat possessively watched his release drip out of Sherlock’s hole. 

Sherlock looked up at him through hazy eyes and smirked. 

“Yours,” he murmured sleepily. 

John leaned forward to press their lips together. Sherlock responded with a low moan. 

“Yours,” John vowed.

Climbing off of their bed, John headed to the bathroom to grab the nearest towel to clean their bodies off. When he came back, Sherlock was nearly asleep as John wiped the drying semen from his belly as well as around his puffy, used hole. Sherlock made small sounds until John was finished and pulled Sherlock into his arms, facing each other. Although Sherlock was taller, he huddled against John’s chest, his long legs wrapping around John’s. John rested his chin atop Sherlock’s curls and smiled at the smell of sandalwood and just  _ Sherlock. _

“I love you,” John murmured, more so to hear himself say it, to be able to say it.

He didn’t expect the sleepy reply that came from Sherlock. “Mm. I love you too.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr: consulting-writer.tumblr.com


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